And before anyone asks, no, this is not the film version where (obviously) they had wild passionate sex (off screen) until dawn where they had to go off to save the world from a full-blown world war III. :D I don't own anything, it's owners have done enough with it ;)
XXX
1962 and The October Ordeal
XXX
In the middle of all that rage and cold hard need for revenge, Charles sees infinite potential. (Just as Erik sees a world of possibility, of peace and forgiveness at the way Charles smiles back at him.)
It is during the October of 1962 that John F. Kennedy's voice flows through the speakers of the radio. Echoing out from the kitchen with the static lying beneath the words, it is on repeat, like a continuous warning that is all too capable of planting a seed of deep-set fear in the hearts of any American.
The little black and white television is turned off.
Erik has his chin in his hand and an elbow against an armrest. It is too late to be night and too early for it to be morning, the sky is the same dark black-blue as the ocean where Charles has first pulled him out.
"Erik."
With an easy call of his name, Charles enters the sitting room with two empty glasses and a bottle of scotch. He has a smile spread over his lips as he taps the edge of the glass against his temple, just like he habitually does with his fingertips.
"I know what you're thinking."
And his voice curls in a way that makes him seem as though he is telling the world a little insignificant secret.
Erik looks up at the other and his tone is just as easy, there is even a hint of a smile spreading over his lips.
"I think that goes without saying, Charles."
Still, he doesn't stop thinking of the water pressing in from all sides. He doesn't let the self-loathe dissipate, but neither does he stop the flow of Charles's voice from bleeding into his thoughts, tearing him away from all the anger that has had him rooted from the start.
Charles merely shakes his head lightly at the memories as he sits down on the small loveseat that Erik has settled himself in.
"Ice is on the kitchen counter." It is also a voiceless: Get it for me? that Charles doesn't even need to think before Erik is nodding with a lift of a finger from the sofa.
Charles doesn't stare, he merely steals a glance as he notes the flitting focus of concentration as Erik beckons the metal to his bare hands. Setting the pair of glasses on top of the small wooden table in front of them, the bucket comes through the open doorway and drifts steadily towards them.
Even though Charles doesn't say anything, he is smiling as though he is seeing a miracle unfold right before his eyes. Erik doesn't comment either, he merely sits the bucket next to the bottle of scotch, obvious to the way those blue eyes glint.
And it is almost with expertise that Charles opens the bottle.
"Care for a drink, my friend?"
His smile widens as he tilts it so he has the lips of the bottle to the edge of an ice-filled glass.
"I wouldn't dare to decline." He holds out the other glass, like an offering and Charles wastes no time in pouring the liquid amber over ice.
It is the night before the event that will go down in history as the Cuban Missile Crisis.
But neither of them can see into future, they only have eyes for the present (each other.)
And no longer can they hear Kennedy's voice drifting from the radio balanced atop the kitchen counter.
000
Perhaps he likes to play healer to a broken soul. But Charles knows he likes the ambitious shine to those German green eyes a little too much for it to be right.
It may be the dangerous tinge or the revengeful edge because even though he isn't the young blushing maiden imaging the perfect realm for herself, he knows (much like her) that he will fall for the bad boy in the end.
Charles tries to hold out because a broken heart is inevitable no matter how it ends.
Yes, sometimes he wishes he could foresee the future instead of telepathy.
Because when they lean in, it is only because the lights are mellow and the skies are too dark beyond the wide windows of his childhood home. (And perhaps, they both like each other a little more than the word like can describe.)
His mouth closes over his.
Lips pressing against before into another.
Because although they can put a hand to a cheek and caress the skin, he won't, much like he can put a gun to his head but he can never pull the trigger, point blank, bullets grazing. It isn't in him to kill or even hurt, Charles doesn't have it in him to do anything else but accept and forgive, even if the world breaks him for it.
He takes his lips in his teeth and bites, softly.
There are no desperate clings or a white-knuckled grip.
He isn't asking for permission or demanding for more.
There are no lewd moans between heavy groans.
He parts his lips, gently, and welcomes the intrusion with nothing less than acceptance beyond all measurable reasoning. (Because perhaps, he needs this just as much.)
Their relationship isn't an abrupt stop or a passionate to be continued. Because they can share a kiss and nothing will change when they pull back, lips red and scotch-stained tongues slick of the taste of each other.
000
Erik doesn't need the ability to read minds.
He has seen, felt, experienced through far too much to want more (pain, anger, and destruction.) And perhaps he can call Charles a naïve fool for believing in the good of this world when he can tell just how much wrong the world has done to it's people. Still, even those words barely scratch the surface of what the other man is beneath those tweed suit jackets and that title of a genetics professor.
Charles Xavier is leaning back into the chair with a coy smile playing at his lips.
There is none of the bashful embarrassment that he has thought they will encounter and he is surprisingly grateful when he sees that Charles hasn't become more beautiful or fascinating moments after they share a kiss.
He is still real.
As Charles leans over to help himself to the half-emptied (half-full in Charles's perspective, he is sure) bottle of scotch from the wooden table, they break eye contact.
His hair isn't mussed, his eyes aren't hooded and glazed. He is just the same Charles Xavier that has pulled him from beneath the heavy currents and there is nothing more that Erik will ask of him.
"Another cup?"
Well, maybe just another.
Charles's smile stretches into a grin and he pours, spilling not a drop as scotch washes over rounding cubes of ice. And these are the moments that can really make Erik furrow his brows because he is just a little (too) concerned with what Charles has occupied himself with when his eyes aren't trained on the fine print of the latest genetics articles during his years in Oxford.
"Thanks."
They hold out their glass.
And there is no mind-reading involved.
(Because they know exactly what to expect.)
When glass meets glass in a momentarily heartbreaking kiss, a sharp clink rings out in the room.
It is a toast (to the good times.)
Because at that moment, they don't need to know what they want or what they so desperately need. They each have the other, at least for a few more hours of tonight.
000
Tilting their heads back, it is almost as though they are imitating the other because their necks quirk back at the same angle and their eyes close just as the scotch disappears between their lips.
Downing the drink, the ice cubes cool the heat on their tongues.
And usually when they recline back into the seats, they will sit with a faint trail of conversation that weaves in and out between them, silent thoughts before spoken words.
"It's really quite a shame your chess set is made of wood."
And really, it is like a contemplation more than a conversation starter when it comes out of Erik's mouth. Charles is surprised because he really doesn't know how to follow it up. So the reply comes, a little slow and rather unsure.
"Well… I do have a plastic set in the downstairs library."
Charles's tone amuses Erik far more than it should and he leans over for the scotch just to hide the upward tilt of his lips. His fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle and he refills both their glass before replying, in earnest consideration.
"I think that hardly helps, considering I can't attract plastic either."
Charles stifles a small laugh and quickly takes a sip from his (now filled to the brim) cup, scotch cool, ice cold. "If that is the case, my friend, Raven would probably have named you Plastino."
Those cheeky grins are hardly ever hidden from view and this time, it is no different. Charles doesn't even have the courtesy to grin behind his glass or cover his thoroughly amused expression up with a hand to his mouth.
Instead, Erik shakes his head in exasperation because he feels no anger or annoyance, just a really strong pull at his lips to smile in return.
He doesn't know how Charles does it but it gets hard to resist when the other man can make him smile unconsciously (maybe it has something to do with those hypnotizing blue eyes that is staring at him right now.)
"Plastino, huh?" He seems to sound the syllables around his tongue as he repeats after Charles at the ridiculous nickname. "…It just doesn't have the same ring as Magneto."
"Agreed, my friend." Charles brightens at Erik's reply despite the trivial almost childish topic their conversation has trailed off to. "Plastino sounds a little… juvenile, if I may put it in those words."
Charles smiles with those lips that Erik has just kissed and no one can be sure whether they are just nonchalant this way or if a kiss on the lips is just as natural as a pat on the back for the two of them.
They may have lost track of time or maybe time has left them behind but they stand up when their veins are buzzing with the warmth of alcohol and the skies look as though it is beginning to thin out around the edges.
The bottle is empty when they get up from the love seat, all drained cups and melted ice and there is no hesitance. Just like the first initiation Erik has put into their kiss, Charles leans over and lays a kiss at the corner of his mouth.
It is a moment before he pulls back, lips lingering with reluctance on the parts of both parties.
"See you in the morning, Erik."
They don't have the guts or enough dare to blame it on the alcohol because when their lips meet, it is almost second nature for them to lean in deeper.
"Charles, I think it's more like a few hours."
He nods at the grandfather clock in the hall and the countdown has closed in far sooner than they have expected. Still, Charles only ever smiles back, British accent back in full. There are no awkward pauses because they keep at it. Nothing has changed, not even with the affectionate (beyond-friendship-good-night) kiss.
"Good night."
"Night."
They both turn down a different corner than all the previous nights at the Westchester mansion because neither of them can trust themselves with their hands tonight. There is something different, something to the way that tonight may be their last night and tomorrow might just be the end of the world.
But maybe it is with firm belief.
Because they don't play chess.
Or perhaps, it is something else all together, something a lot more than friendship and a little less than a romantic sort of love.
Because their last game isn't over until they have both given up on each other.
XXX Kuro
When you sit on the couch with the remote by the TV, all you want to be is Plastino. I am glad this didn't turn into a on-the-beach-sob-fest.